Archive of Our Own

“Why would I need to move out?” Enjolras’s voice is a touch too demanding, and his hand is halfway to his chin before he remembers that he has no more coins to catch. It’s odd, to speak without the weight of gold on his lower lip.

“It’s more practical,” Courfeyrac says, after a short silence. His restless hands are tapping out a nervous rhythm on the table, one that Enjolras can recognize now as a subtle piece of spellwork. “Grantaire doesn’t have a spare room. I do.”

Enjolras runs one hand back through his long hair. It’s long, it’s always been long, and that’s beginning to bother him for the first time in his life. “I’m sure Grantaire would appreciate not having me taking up his room,” he says uncertainly. This is the first time the thought has occurred to him.

There’s a certain slant of sunlight striking one of his shoulders and not the other. He can feel the stark difference in warmth on either side of his spine, but he hasn’t tried to move more fully in or out of it.

Courfeyrac makes an unimpressed noise and narrows his bright blue eyes. Enjolras had been unnerved by his friend’s propensity for changing the color of his irises from day to day, but he’s grown used to it now. “Grantaire’s grown to like you, I can tell,” Courfeyrac says dismissively. “He wouldn’t mind having you stay. But he doesn’t have the space.”

“He only has one bed,” Enjolras offers slowly. Courfeyrac’s grin turns sharp and delighted.

“I meant to ask about that! What did you–?”

Enjolras cuts him off swiftly. “He just let me sleep there. He didn’t sleep.”

“At all?”

“Not until I made him.” Enjolras fidgets with a curl on the side of his face, one which has been blinding him with refractions of sunlight. “I cut him off from coffee and made him go to bed, and then he cracked my curse when he woke up.”

Courfeyrac starts tracing his fingers on the table in swift, complex patterns. “I meant to ask,” he murmurs slowly. “Do you have…a way to take care of yourself?”

“I still have a lot of gold, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well I wasn’t going to ask outright.” Courfeyrac grins and and sobers in an alarmingly short amount of time. “You could look into getting your own rooms,” he says seriously, “though I can’t imagine you’d like to be alone all the time right now.”

Enjolras frowns. “I don’t need therapy or anything,” he mutters. “Nothing happened to me.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes are kind in a way that feels like pity. “Yesterday you were cured of a curse that you’ve had since you were seven,” he says carefully. “It’s bound to be a little strange.”

Enjolras’s expression fractures in a way that feels painful, from the inside. “I keep reaching up to catch coins when I talk,” he admits quietly. “And I want to figure out where it was all coming from, still. I don’t want to have been robbing from someone every time I spoke.”

The smile on Courfeyrac’s face takes on a melancholy tilt. “You want to stay at Grantaire’s.” The wooden table has begun to glow underneath his fingertips in an array of golden lines. “I was wondering what that wistfulness in you was.” His words are laced with interest, not judgment, which is the only reason Enjolras is not perturbed at having his emotions read so plainly.

He rugs his colder shoulder. “It’s interesting. He’s interesting.” He breathes out roughly and leans his head on one careless hand. “I liked Provence, when I was there,” he adds as flippantly as he knows how. “I remember it from when I was a child. I’ve never seen colors like that anywhere else in the world– I know now that it’s a large part of the magic they do there. And everything was quiet, and I was alone, and I always thought that I would go back because I felt good for the first time in forever.” He clears his throat. “I was happier at Grantaire’s.”

Courfeyrac keeps the fingertips of one hand on his glimmering golden spell and reaches across the table for Enjolras with the other. “Why do you think that is?” He asks quietly.

And Enjolras doesn’t say it. He could– he could talk about how soft and kind Grantaire is when he isn’t putting up a front. He could talk about how Grantaire was the first person in his entire life whose interest in the curse had nothing to do with money. He could talk about Grantaire’s garden, bordered with wind chimes to orient a gardener who can’t see his own beautiful flowers. He doesn’t say it. He says: “I don’t know.”

*

Clay pots for lavender, and peonies; three times three rows of lavender; first row purple, second row purple, third row white…

Grantaire drifts over his rooftop garden.

Perfect squares of canvas and perfect lengths of twine…

He can feel dirt in the crease of his thumb and under his fingernails. He presses his palms to his face and breathes in deeply.

Hold the base of the plant and pull it out of the pot; place it perfectly in the center of the perfect square…

He’s surrounded by bundles of lavender wrapped in canvas and twine. Later he’ll string them up in his apartment, just above the level of his head so he won’t run into them. Enjolras might run into them, because he’s taller, but he’ll be able to see the small, bright obstacles. If he visits while the flowers are still there.

Tie the knot as best you can…

Grantaire’s mother often narrates his actions when he works. He remembers being a bright-eyed boy in her workshop, relegated to a stool where he would sit and watch for hours on end as she would tend to her plants and write charms and perform stunningly gorgeous shows of magic for his benefit. He remembers asking to be taught. He remembers being told, not until you’re older, mon petit chose fragile.

He feels very, very small. He wishes he could fold in on himself, like a book shutting its thin pages between comforting covers and staying self-contained on a shelf.

Purple, purple, white…

“Is your tall friend gone?”

Grantaire grins and tightens his grip on the flowerpot. “You’re getting better. I didn’t even notice you were here.”

Now that he’s not trying to cloak himself, Gavroche’s spike of pride is perceivable in his quicksilver magic. “Yeah, well,” he says nonchalantly. “Not like you would notice anyway. Head in the clouds and all. Mooning over your golden boy.”

“I haven’t been mooning.” Grantaire sets the last clay pot in his place and turns back to face Gavroche. “Help me carry these flowers downstairs and we can talk. You haven’t been by in a while.”

Gavroche’s frantic energy moves closer. His feet make no noise on the ground. They may not even be touching the ground. “I was told to stay away, on account of there being a literal marble statue taking up residence in your apartment.”

Grantaire starts picking up bundles of lavender. “Who told you that?”

“Bahorel. Also he asked me for good goldfinch names? Do I look like a baby naming dictionary to you?”

“I mean for all I know you could have the top boy’s names of 1987 tattooed on your–”

“I will drop these flowers off the building,” Gavroche threatens.

Grantaire straightens up with his arms full of lavender. “Try me. You’ll be going over the edge after them.”

Gavroche laughs like a wicked shadow. “You can’t scare me. You’re wearing yellow pants, dude.”

“That doesn’t inhibit my abilities.” The door of the roof swings open as Grantaire approaches it and he makes his way carefully down with Gavroche at his back. “Enjolras doesn’t live with me. I was helping him with a curse.”

“But he was sleeping here.”

“Literally how do you know that.”

“Dude was walking around with your sweater on like no one would notice. I can put two and two together.”

Grantaire has to duck his head to hide a smile at the thought of Enjolras curled up in his favorite sweater. “Where did you see him?”

“Bahorel’s. He seems pretty tight with Courfeyrac.”

“He knew Courfeyrac before he knew me.”

“So why isn’t he wearing Courfeyrac’s sweaters?”

Grantaire reaches his landing and waits for Gavroche to get the door to his apartment. “He was staying with me for a few days. He was cursed. I helped him out.” Gavroche starts to snicker but Grantaire doesn’t react. He feels a little hollow again, all of a sudden. “He went back to staying at Courfeyrac’s a few days ago.”

He had liked having Enjolras here.

“Where do you want these?” Gavroche asks when they fully enter the apartment.

Grantaire shakes his head. “We can actually hang them now. Do you need a step stool?” He laughs when Gavroche swears at him.

“Is there a color scheme?”

“I literally just had to bite back so many comments about my color scheme. There were too many. I was inundated. You have no idea–”

“I get it, smartass, you’re blind. Doesn’t mean the arrangement of colors doesn’t mean anything.”

Grantaire smiles as he lays his armful of neatly wrapped flowers on the table by the window. “Ép’s got you back in classes, then?”

A wisp of energy swirls next to him as Gavroche sniffs and sets his flowers down as well. “For the time being.”

Grantaire tugs at one strand of his hair. “If you hang all of the flowers for me I’ll give you one of my rings,” he offers impulsively.

The floor creaks as Gavroche drops out of the air just to bounce up and down with excitement. “The gold one?”

“Hell no.”

“The silver one?”

“Also no.”

“The…bronze one?”

“If you hang all of the flowers for me I’ll give you one of my iron rings,” Grantaire says loudly. He would cuff Gavroche’s shoulder if he wasn’t afraid of missing.

“Deal. How do you want them? Are you replacing the plants in the glass globes?”

Grantaire sinks into his simple chair and casts his senses around the room. He has to blot out Gavroche’s bright stain of motion in his perception. The air in the room is fresh and light; he breathes in deeply. “No. The green plants stay. I want most of the lavender in the corner– there should be hooks in the ceiling for hanging them.”

The warm hum of energy from the flowers moves away as Gavroche sets to work. He whistles as he moves quickly around the room. Grantaire stays in his chair and plays with some loose strands of silver he has on the table.

Enjolras reminds him of Gavroche, in a way. Same levels of frantic energy. But where Gavroche is pure quicksilver, Enjolras burns gold.

“Done.”

Grantaire pulls one of the rings off his left pointer finger and throws it in the air. Gavroche is a flash of motion and energy as he jumps forward to catch it before it hits the ground. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says happily as he puts on the ring. The temperature in the room plummets. “Cool.”

“Use it wisely,” Grantaire warns him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Gavroche makes his way towards the door. “By the way. I did have a reason for coming by, other than to see your pining face.”

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “State your news and begone, demon child.”

“Harsh.” Gavroche opens the door. “You might be getting a visit from a mutual friend soon. Thought I ought to warn you.”

He slams the door behind him on his way out.

*

Enjolras knocks tentatively on Grantaire’s door and tries to stop tugging at his hair.

Though Courfeyrac was his classmate in childhood and a pen pal for most of his adolescence, he finds that living with his curly-haired friend is an exhausting experience. Courfeyrac never stops moving, he always has guests, and Enjolras can’t do anything without having his emotions read out to him. He isn’t used to the noise and the people.

Going to Grantaire’s feels like escaping.

The door opens all the way immediately and Enjolras can’t help but smile at Grantaire as the shorter man slouches against the doorframe. He’s dressed in uncharacteristic colors today. “To what do I owe the honor?” He drawls.

Enjolras smiles ruefully and rubs at one of his temples. “Are you busy? I thought we could just sit and talk, maybe.”

Grantaire’s smile is a quick and glorious thing. “Come on in. I have new flowers today!”

“So you do.” Enjolras toes off his shoes once he steps inside the door and breathes in deeply. The very air in Grantaire’s flat seems cleaner and fresher than anywhere else, and he can feel the throbbing points of his gentle headache beginning to recede. “They look very nice.”

“Oh good. I was afraid they weren’t matching my aesthetic.”

Enjolras laughs and bends down to rub Grantaire’s cliché of a black cat behind the ears. He isn’t going to say it out loud, but he loves the look of Grantaire’s place: the impressive bookshelves that cover most of the white walls; the green plants and flowers that overflow on the windowsill and hang from the ceiling; the dark stone of the little fireplace; the little bed with the dark blue blanket, just visible through the doorway to Grantaire’s bedroom, that Enjolras knows by touch; Grantaire himself, with his wild mess of curls and dark skin covered in tattoos.

The witchboy is gesturing him vaguely to one of the little chairs at the table in front of the window, so Enjolras goes, and Grantaire sits opposite him. He manages to look discerning even with his eyes shut. “Is it too much for you at Courfeyrac’s?”

Enjolras breathes out in a rush. “Yes. I didn’t expect it to be like this at all. Everything is so loud and busy.” He plays with the edge of a thick sheet of dark paper on the table; it looks like a lunar calendar.

“I can make you some tea, if you’d like? Calming stuff?”

The gentleness of Grantaire’s voice has Enjolras nodding before he catches himself. “That would actually be really nice,” he says out loud. Grantaire gets up.

“It was quiet in England,” Enjolras says quietly after a few moments. He touches one hand to the base of his throat. “Even I was quiet there, because– you know. Gold.”

“How could I ever forget?”

Enjolras ducks his head to smile slightly. “And then when I ran away I was still on my own. I haven’t been around this many people since…”

Grantaire hums inquisitively.

“You know, I don’t know that I ever have,” Enjolras finishes. He has to stop to rub at his eyes. A light, tentative touch makes him look down; Grantaire has stepped over to hesitantly to grip his shoulder.

“Where did you go when you ran away?” He asks softly. Enjolras loves his voice.

He shrugs, and curses inwardly when Grantaire takes his hand back and returns to making tea in his copper teapot. “Provence. I didn’t know where else to go, I had visited there as a child.” He watches Grantaire carefully pull two white mugs out of a cupboard. “Running away was more about leaving home than it was about arriving anywhere else.”

Grantaire huffs. “I can sympathize.” He returns to the table with two mugs of tea. “Drink that. It has a shot of peace in it for you.”

Enjolras accepts the mug and sips it carefully as Grantaire sits down. The tea is hot, minty, and flavored with honey; he feels calm spreading to the very tips of his fingers after only one drink. “Oh!”

Grantaire smiles and ducks his head. They drink their tea in silence for several moments. Grantaire downs half of his in one go and starts playing with the silver bands on the table.

Enjolras puts his cup down and takes a deep breath. “I want to cut all of my hair off.”

Grantaire points in Enjolras’s general direction, though he doesn’t look up. “I’m going to take this opportunity to point out that I am a much better friend than Courfeyrac in moments like this, because he would gasp and be horrified about the loss of your ‘glorious golden mane.’ Whereas I don’t give a fuck.” His tone is back to its normal, teasing familiarity.

Enjolras crosses his arms and shoots back: “That would be a better claim to make if you could actually see my hair.”

“Woe is me. I’ll have to go without.” Grantaire drops his hand and returns to working with his small bits of silver. “I’d offer to cut it for you but I can’t imagine you want a blind man near your head with a pair of scissors.”

“Let’s avoid it.” Enjolras languishes back in his chair. His restlessness has disappeared. “But I need to.”

Grantaire shrugs expressively. Enjolras watches the way the flowers tattooed on his arm shift with the movement of his skin; his loose purple sweater is falling down his shoulder and Enjolras has to fight the urge to tug it into place. “Is there a particular reason?”

“Cutting ties with my past?”

Grantaire grins down at his work. “Ah, my favorite pastime. Cutting ties, burning bridges, severing acquaintances–”

“You’ve had the same group of friends for how many years–?”

“–killing my past selves, killing those who ask about my past selves–”

“You’re wearing yellow jeans. You couldn’t be threatening if you tried.”

“Why does everyone keep bringing that up?” Grantaire wraps a length of thin silver wire around one of his fingers. “I can’t tell what I’m putting on, god.”

Enjolras buries his head in one hand. “I figured you had a system for that.”

“Nah. I tend to have people buy me clothes in a general color scheme so that they don’t clash often.” He grins. “But I know exactly who would have bought me bright yellow skinny jeans.”

“I don’t want to know.” Enjolras leans forward and crosses his arms on the table. “And they’re more of a mustard yellow. They actually go nicely with your sweater.” A pause. “Which is dark purple, by the way.”

Grantaire hums in interest but still doesn’t stop concentrating on the delicate movements of his fingers. Enjolras studies him unabashedly. He’s still amazed by how Grantaire works; either with his eyelids closed and his expressive brows always moving, or with his eyes fixed on some invisible point removed from the motions of his hands.

“I can take you to a barber if you want. I don’t know if any of our motley crew can be trusted to do a decent job,” Grantaire says after a few moments. “You can get all sorts of things done in the salons in this city.”

“Like what?”

“There’s a huge market for beauty spells. Changing your eye color and stuff like that. I think it’s ridiculous but then I can’t actually see any of it, so…” He clears his throat. “Magically dying your hair is popular too. I have a friend whose girlfriend is apparently very into that.”

Enjolras runs a hand self-consciously through his golden curls. “How does it work?”

Grantaire sets a perfectly-woven band of silver strands on the table and stretches his arms up over his head. The collar of his sweater rides back up over his collarbones. “There are a couple of good options, actually. Depends on your specialty.” He smiles crookedly; it’s one of Enjolras’s favorite smiles. “Learning moment, young padawan. Which type of magic do you think is best for it?”

“…Your kind?”

Grantaire leans back precariously in his chair and runs his hands through his own curls. “It’s a tie, actually. Say I wanted to dye my hair gold, like yours. If I could write, I would write a spell for it. I'd write it in a language that comes from a culture where beauty is prized. I would write in a cipher that ties it only to me. I would use words to invoke the most brilliant of colors.” He tips his chair forward again. “But I can't write. So instead I would find a golden flower, and I would steal the magic that produces its color, and the result would be the same.”

Enjolras will never grow tired of hearing how much Grantaire knows. “Flowers use magic to make their colors?”

“Flowers have magic for color. Trees have magic to help them grow and protect them from bugs. Stones have the equivalent to a strength spell sunk into every part of them. There isn't a lot, but it's there, and people like me can use it.” Grantaire scratches idly at his nose. “Everything in nature does, in its own way. Natural magic. The hardest to work with and the most volatile.”

“Yes, I know, you’re all powerful and incredible,” Enjolras deadpans.

Grantaire’s laugh is bright and startling. “Just for that, we’ll go get your hair cut today,” he promises happily. “I’m very susceptible to compliments.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

They leave as soon as Enjolras finishes his cup of tea. He doesn’t have to fight his wide smile as he guides Grantaire down the stairs and out onto the street; he loves walking arm-in-arm with the shorter man, both guiding and being guided as they strike out into the day.

“So I’m pretty sure we turn left soon,” Grantaire will say vaguely, and Enjolras will read out street names to him until one ‘sounds right.’ For all of the ambiguity, Grantaire is startlingly good at navigating himself around the busy city.

Enjolras just loves looking around. Vendors on the corners of streets are shouting and holding amulets and talismans aloft. The sidewalk is covered with graffiti like red handprints that is recognizable as spellwork, and Enjolras swears he can feel it humming beneath his feet. The stores they pass promise palm reading and card reading and ‘coffee so good, you’ll swear it’s magic!’

The hair on Enjolras’s head feels heavy. He can’t wait to be rid of it. It’s a constant blinding burden in the corner of his eye.

“There’s like a weird half-turn left that we need to make here, I think?”

“Okay, I see it.”

In England, magic was the country’s worst-kept secret. Enjolras isn’t sure why it was technically outlawed as a whole. But even in the places where it was practiced illegally, a rigid adherence to tradition was enforced that denied any magical progress. Enjolras’s parents would have been horrified to see Grantaire’s magically modified cellphone, or the moving murals painted on the exposed sides of brick buildings.

A busker is playing a violin on the other side of the street that bleeds shimmering colors into the air with every note lifted from the strings. Grantaire smiles when he hears the music; Enjolras is entranced by the bright red arcs of light that swirl around the busker’s head.

“Why doesn’t the king of England want this to exist in his country?” Enjolras bursts out. “The things you do here are incredible!”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Paris is actually a very deviant city,” he points out mildly, “even by France’s standards. I can’t imagine you saw a lot of street magic in Provence.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Most of what they did was about color and food?” He says, and then frowns. “And I didn’t go out much while I was there.”

“Using magic is outlawed in a lot of different countries still, and certain branches can be outlawed or be more heavily regulated than others. Like necromancy.” Grantaire screws up his nose and thinks for a moment. “There’s a right turn soon.”

Enjolras guides them across the street. “Obviously people in England were using magic,” he says in irritation, “but it seemed like it was only people like my family. Old. Very traditional.”

Grantaire starts to laugh. “That’s because England is the worst perpetrator of magical classism in the world, sweetheart.” Enjolras’s face burns red. “Initially it was only for the royal family and the court… All that nonsense about blue blood and such… And that hasn’t ever really gone away.” His tone turns thoughtful. “Bahorel is a good person to ask about it. He’s taken a lot of classes about the effects of colonization and what English explorers and missionaries did when they came up against forms of magic they saw as ‘primitive’ or ‘uncultured.’”

Enjolras grips his arm more tightly and waits.

“Most European countries are guilty of it as well, of course,” Grantaire adds magnanimously. “Including France. That’s one of the reasons why magical culture is so different in Canada compared to the United States. Especially in Québec. They have similar attitudes to magic that we do here. Very open, very experimental.”

“Have you ever been to Canada?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire laughs and shakes his head. “I’ve never left Europe,” he admits. “But my mother is Québécoise.”

A woman walks past them with vibrant white flames curling in her cupped palms. The store on Enjolras’s left is selling luminous blue flowers that bob back and forth without a breeze. Grantaire’s eyelids flicker open, revealing his cloudy gray-blue irises.

“I think we’re here,” he announces grandly. He keeps his elbow tucked against his side as he gestures to the street before them, a habit which Enjolras has noticed in most French people. “I’ll leave it to you to guide us through the correct door.”

*

The wonderful thing about Enjolras is how loose and unguarded and happy his magic is. Grantaire almost doesn’t need Courfeyrac’s abilities to be able to read happiness glowing in every corner of Enjolras’s being. He had ducked his head and permitted Grantaire to run his rough fingers through Enjolras’s newly-short hair; Grantaire had laughed aloud at Enjolras’s obvious excitement.

They’re walking back to Grantaire’s apartment when he raises a point that’s been on his mind of late. “Have you talked to Courfeyrac at all about taking classes somewhere for your magic?”

Enjolras sighs. “There aren’t a lot of options for someone my age,” he mutters. “Most people with my type of talent have developed it already, either through classes or on their own. It would be like putting me in a dance class with the four-year-olds.”

Someone walks to close to Grantaire and he frowns at the dissident hum of their energy. “So do it on your own,” he says. “If there aren’t any good classes just have Courfeyrac and Combeferre help you find the right books and put you in touch with the right teachers. There’s no shortage of people in our acquaintance who have similar skills.”

“I don’t know how to do anything with spoken magic,” Enjolras says unhappily. “It was always forbidden to even try.”

“Are we almost home? We can experiment,” Grantaire offers. He isn’t surprised that the shot of peace he gave Enjolras in his tea didn’t last long; Enjolras has a frantic, determined soul. He will never settle.

Enjolras just makes a thoughtful noise and gently guides Grantaire over a curb. Grantaire can generally tell the layout of a place and where most people are, but it’s difficult on a busy street, and he isn’t great with the things right beneath his feet. He’s grateful for Enjolras’s arm in his.

It isn’t long before Grantaire is back in his sweet-smelling rooms with the golden presence of Enjolras seated once more in one of his little chairs. “You do know that part of your curse was spoken magic, right?” Grantaire says conversationally. He listens carefully for Enjolras’s response while he waters his basil and the spiky aloe plant near the sink.

“What?”

“I figure that’s why it manifested itself the way it did, when it attached to you.” Grantaire shrugs. “You have a natural talent for spoken magic. Hence, words and coins.”

Enjolras is quiet for several moments.

The unnamed black cat rubs against Grantaire’s ankles and he smiles as he puts away his watering can. “What I’m trying to say is that it would be easier for you to do spoken magic than you think. It’s mostly intention. Don’t think about using another language, don’t think about rhyming or singing or chanting, none of that. Just say something and and believe that what you’re saying is going to happen.” Enjolras rises from his chair and begins pacing around the room. Grantaire grins. “Take your time,” he advises.

Grantaire has just taken a seat at the table with a glass of water when the door opens very suddenly; Enjolras freezes in place, but Grantaire swiftly sets the cup in his hands on the table. He’s not a moment too soon. A cold, familiar figure settles in his lap and straddles his hips. One ghostly kiss is pressed to the center of his forehead. “My darling,” the newcomer says, “how are you?”

Grantaire grins. “Enjolras,” he says innocently, “have you met Montparnasse?”

Montparnasse goes still. “You have company.” He doesn’t turn around but elects to drape his thin wrists over Grantaire’s shoulders instead. “How rude.”

Grantaire settles his hands on Montparnasse’s thighs. “The fault, I’m afraid, is entirely yours,” he says with mock severity. “Turn around and make nice.”

He receives another ephemeral kiss, this time on his cheek, before Montparnasse twists away to look behind him. “Oh, you’re very pretty,” he says appreciatively.

Enjolras remains silent. Grantaire sighs and hooks his hands underneath Montparnasse’s thighs so that he can stand up and drop his skinny friend on his own feet. “Enjolras, this is Montparnasse. Mont, Enjolras.”

“A pleasure,” Enjolras says quietly.

Montparnasse swirls away from Grantaire. “The pleasure is all mine,” he replies easily, and Grantaire is aware enough of Montparnasse’s chilly magic to know that he’s approaching Enjolras. “Where did Grantaire find you?”

It’s inconvenient. Grantaire can tell where Montparnasse and Enjolras stand, but he can’t read their expressions or gestures to gauge the situation. There’s only so much emotion he can detect through magic. A small, persistent corner of his mind is whispering about Montparnasse calling Enjolras pretty; based on the descriptions of friends, Montparnasse is the prettiest person Grantaire knows.

“He’s a friend of a friend.” Enjolras’s voice is low, and he’s whirring with nervous discomfort that Grantaire can’t interpret.

Montparnasse doesn’t relent. “What’s your gift?”

Grantaire takes a step forward. “Don’t interrogate him, Mont, it’s an odd family situation,” he says firmly.

“Certainly.” Montparnasse pivots the conversation with frightening grace. “Grantaire, I’m afraid I need to collect on a favor.”

“That sounds ominous.” Grantaire scrubs his hands through his hair. “I forgot that Gavroche mentioned you would be paying me a visit today.”

“Nice of him.” Montparnasse’s voice is cold and amused. “Should I come back with my query when you don’t have a guest?”

“It doesn’t matter. Enjolras can hear whatever you have to say.”

“Brilliant. Babet is being cursed remotely and I need your help tracking down the source.”

Grantaire starts laughing. “This is the fourth time he’s gotten cursed, is his luck really that rotten?”

“It has less to do with luck than you might think,” Montparnasse says unconcernedly. “I won’t hesitate to say that he absolutely deserved it, but the effects are rather…inconvenient.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Montparnasse sniffs. “At least I have style. You’ve seen my work, I assume?” He directs this question at Enjolras.

The blond makes a noise of confusion. “I don’t live here. Or, well, I didn’t until very recently.”

Montparnasse gasps. “You weren’t raised in Paris? I pity you. My darling Paris is the gem of the world. There is no city more enchanting than this one, my home, my sancta sanctorum, the love of my life–!”

“He was born in Prague,” Grantaire interjects.

“Kindly fuck off, Grantaire.”

Enjolras shifts on his feet. “I was born somewhere in Provence,” he offers.

Grantaire frowns. He probably should have known that by now; Enjolras does speak French with a hint of the dragging Provençal accent.

Montparnasse scoffs. “Provence is nice if you want a color palette or overpriced furniture,” he says dismissively. “Paris is the heart of the magical revolution! I can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else.”

“Calling it a revolution is a bit excessive,” Grantaire says mildly, but to his surprise Enjolras cuts him off.

“I actually thing calling it a revolution is very apt,” he announces. “There are advancements being made here that aren’t being made anywhere else. Isn’t the very nature of revolution that it is an upheaval of the old order of things? I don’t know if there’s another word that better characterizes what’s happening in Paris.”

Grantaire’s ears are ringing in a way that reminds him of why Enjolras is so good with words, and his heart is going in a way that reminds him of something he doesn’t want to inspect too closely. Even Montparnasse is impressed into silence for several long moments.

“What a charming guest,” he finally says. “He has every ounce of love for Paris as one who has lived here for their entire life.”

Grantaire casts around for a chair and sits in it carefully. “Tell me about what happened to Babet.”

“He experiences several minutes of sudden, untraceable pain if he says certain words,” Montparnasse says carefully.

“Oh,” Enjolras’s voice is quiet. “That’s a lot like–” mine, he doesn’t finish, but Grantaire hears him anyway.

“I can leave the list we’ve made so far with your charismatic guest, if you would like?” Montparnasse offers.

“Please.”

The rustle of paper is audible to Grantaire’s ears as Montparnasse offers the list to Enjolras. After a moment, Montparnasse’s chilling energy moves back over to Grantaire. He takes the witchboy’s face in his gloved hands and presses a slow kiss to his forehead again. Grantaire tries not to shiver.

“I hope you have a beautiful day, Grantaire,” Montparnasse says firmly. Then he is gone; the door hardly makes a sound as it closes behind him.

Grantaire picks up his water glass and takes a long sip. “I forgot that he was coming,” he offers after the silence becomes stifling. “He doesn’t drop by often.”

“Does he have you break curses often?”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s a coincidence that he’s asking me so soon after I helped you. It isn’t my job.” He takes another long drink of water. “He’s a fucking thief, though, which is why he and his friends get cursed so much.”

“He’s very…pretty,” Enjolras says slowly.

“So are you, apparently.” Grantaire settles into his chair. “I only know his looks by touch, I can’t comment on his attractiveness.”

“By touch?”

“You know.” Grantaire waves an errant hand. “He let me learn his features with my fingers. Most of my friends do. It serves no practical purpose but it’s nice to–.” He stops abruptly when Enjolras catches his hand.

“You don’t know my face,” Enjolras says quietly.

Grantaire calmly sets the glass in his free hand back on the table. “No, I don’t.”

Enjolras’s touch is very warm. “Why didn’t you ask?”

“It’s uncomfortable for some.” Grantaire slowly twists his hand in Enjolras’s grip so that their fingers are laced together. “Would you like me to?”

“It only seems fair.” Enjolras drags the other wooden chair over to himself without letting go of Grantaire’s hand. Once they’re seated at the same level he falls silent.

Grantaire lets go of Enjolras’s hand and reaches forward carefully. “If you want me to stop–”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras insists. Grantaire’s fingertips catch the edge of the movement of his jaw. He follows the line of it carefully down the point of Enjolras’s chin, over his soft mouth, and up the delicate curve of his nose. Enjolras’s skin is soft and warm. Grantaire’s fingertips drift over his fine brows and barely brush over his closed eyelids. He brings up his other hand and gently frames Enjolras’s face with his fingers on the taller man’s temples. Enjolras is hardly breathing.

Grantaire pushes his fingers back into Enjolras’s hair next, though he has done this already today. It’s just as soft and startlingly short. Enjolras emits a pleased humming sound that makes Grantaire smile.

“You’re like my cat,” Grantaire says quietly as he tucks Enjolras’s hair behind his ears. “You’re almost purring.”

“Physical contact is new for me,” Enjolras says. His casual bluntness makes Grantaire ache. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

Enjolras still hesitates. “How did you lose your sight?”

Grantaire pauses and sighs. They’ll have to have this whole conversation someday, but not today. He takes his hands out of Enjolras’s hair and folds them in his lap. “I was exposed to something very powerful when I was younger. It gave me all of my magic, knocked me unconscious for two weeks, and left me blind.” He blinks and drops his chin. “That’s all.”

*

Courfeyrac is good at affection. Combeferre is good at conversation. Enjolras likes nothing better than to sit with the two of them for hours on end and toss memories and theories and queries back and forth. Combeferre isn’t as prickly as Grantaire when Enjolras questions him relentlessly; Courfeyrac’s idle hands catching on his wrists or playing with his hair don’t make him feel as though his skin is full of sparks like Grantaire’s do.

“Most people with spoken magic choose to learn a second language specifically for casting spells,” Combeferre is saying. “Since you’re equally proficient in English and French you can use either one, and as you get more used to casting, you’ll get a feel for which language is better for which types of spells.”

“But why do most people learn another one, if they can cast perfectly well in their first language?” Enjolras demands. He’s currently cradled in Courfeyrac’s arms with his feet lying in Combeferre’s lap and he can’t believe how nice it makes him feel. He has a sneaking suspicion that Grantaire must have said something to Courfeyrac about his comfort levels; Courfeyrac has been making every effort to stagger the amount of people in the apartment, and has also been promoting more physical contact.

Combeferre pushes his glasses more firmly onto the dark bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a loose white t-shirt that stands out sharply against the line of his collarbones. “It makes the intention stronger, actually. You won’t hear any academics admitting this but it’s actually a bit better if you aren’t completely fluent in the other language. You have to work harder to say what you mean. That can make your will more powerful.”

“But I am fluent in both,” Enjolras grumbles. Grantaire teases him mercilessly when he slips between languages midsentence, but he can’t help it most of the time.

“The other school of thought is that’s it’s best to know as many languages as possible so you can use the best possible one for any given situation,” Courfeyrac interjects. He’s wearing his silver rings today, along with several loose bracelets set with purple crystals to match his eyes. “Obviously that isn’t feasible for a lot of people. Also there can actually be a lot of racism involved in that theory?”

“How so?”

Combeferre picks up the answer flawlessly. “I had a professor that said learning any sort of ‘tribal language’– anything from Africa, basically, or Aboriginal Americans or Australians– was best for spells dealing with weather and animals, because those cultures are inherently closer to nature.” His frown is tight and annoyed. “Which stems from a long period of viewing those cultures as less advanced. You can’t assign a culture or language to a certain type of magic like that.”

“That goes along with any European languages being reserved for more complex spellwork.” Courfeyrac buries his hands in Enjolras’s short hair; he loves playing with it, even though he had shrieked when he had first seen Enjolras’s haircut. “Also English was really looked down on for a long time as nothing better than street slang. That’s obviously changed, there’s more elitism attached to English culture than any other these days.”

Enjolras buries his face in his hands. “Is everyone in my country so terrible?”

“America is worse,” Combeferre mutters.

“And not everyone from England is bad,” Courfeyrac adds fondly. “Look at you. You’re doing fine.”

“Tell me again,” Enjolras mumbles, “how people pick which language people choose for spells.”

Combeferre laughs at him. “Don’t beat yourself up over not knowing,” he chides. “We’ve had a lifetime of this, and we’ve been living in Paris for far longer. It’s more a magical cultural center than anything else, these days.”

“And it’s wonderful.”

“Anyway. Like I said, most people just pick a second language. If you have enough intention the language doesn’t matter, there’s just certain nuances that help. People like using other languages because it decreases the likelihood that they’ll do magic accidentally. If someone speaks Japanese as a first language, it’s unlikely that they’ll be lapsing into German unless they’ve specifically designated that as their language for spellwork.”

“Japanese and German?”

Courfeyrac cards his fingers through Enjolras’s hair again. “Most people try to pick a language that they’re not likely to have around them very often. It’s actually had interesting affects on international affairs, with so many people learning languages other than the ones belonging to the countries directly around them.”

“Bear in mind that this is mostly spoken magicians, though,” Combeferre adds. “Courfeyrac and I don’t have ‘spellwork languages,’ because it’s not his specialty and because I can’t do magic.”

“You study magical languages, though.”

“I said I didn’t have a spellwork language, not that I didn’t know any other languages.”

“Fair.”

“So you have a few options,” Courfeyrac says. “You could learn third language. There are courses for it, for learning it specifically with casting in mind. They won’t waste their time teaching you how to say ‘hello,’ it’ll be more like ‘may the blood of those who have wronged me be cursed to boil forevermore–‘”

“He’s exaggerating,” Combeferre says swiftly, in response to Enjolras’s appalled expression. “Cursing people is very illegal. They won’t teach you that.”

Courfeyrac schools his smile into something more serious. “The other option is for you to just start out with English and French. Probably using English, since you’re in Paris. Have you tried casting at all yet?”

Enjolras balls his hands into fists. “I’ve still only been doing written stuff since I got here,” he admits quietly. “Something for keeping me dry when it was raining– a charm for helping me find a shoe– little things.” A wish for Grantaire. A scribbled charm for keeping the witchboy’s tea hot when he had forgotten about it. One small slip of parchment tucked into one of the dusty books on the shelf, for good luck. He doesn’t know how effective they are.

Combeferre runs a comforting hand down Enjolras’s shin. “Is there any reason why?” He asks gently.

“It– I just…” Enjolras screws his eyes shut. “I was severely reprimanded when I did it by accident, as a kid. They told me so often that it was so wrong, and I can’t even justify why, but I’m just not comfortable trying yet.” He’s written spells openly for Grantaire, too, to show what he can do. But hardly any. He hadn’t known what to write.

“The lucky thing is that you have time,” Courfeyrac says into his hair. He keeps his voice low. “You have the time, and you have the money. You can take everything as slow as you’d like. Learning your magic. Finding your own place. Getting a job, if you’re so inclined.”

“I want to,” Enjolras admits. “Sometime. I still have a lot of gold, oh my god, but I don’t want to live only on that for the rest of my life.”

Courfeyrac gathers the blonde more firmly in his arms and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ll be fine, I promise.” His bracelets are cold against Enjolras’s arms. “We’re here to help you. And so is Grantaire.”

*

“Fuck.”

Grantaire grinds to a halt in the middle of his apartment and claps one hand to his forehead in exasperation. He had meant to go shopping today, he had meant to call one of his friends and ask them to take him to buy things, but going out with Enjolras had completely driven the thought from his mind.

He’s out of honey. And lavender seeds. And he has nothing in his apartment to eat. Fuck.

“Quelle heure est-il?” He demands out loud. If it isn’t too late he can still call someone, Joly or Bahorel or–

“Vingt-trois heures et demi,” the clock announces to him. Well, that removes that option. He’ll have to go out by himself. Grantaire hates going out by himself.

The black cat brushes against him as he flits around the apartment and finds his odds and ends to fill his pockets. He’ll have to concentrate if he doesn’t want to run into anyone, or get hit by a car, or trip over something. And he’s always afraid of being caught in a rough situation, which is why he takes a pocketknife and a lighter.

He also plucks a leaf off of one of the plants by the window and eats it with his brow furrowed; it tastes bitter, but he can feel it settle into him and add more precision to his perception. He grows that plant for this particular purpose only.

Finally, he roots around for his phone and walks out the door. He’s aware, he’s prepared, and he still has more protective tattoos than the average street witch. He should be fine.

Grantaire never thought of himself as a fair representative of the disabled community. It’s a thought he works over often, and it returns to him as he makes his way briskly down the street with no guiding hand at his elbow. He has powers that make up for his lost sight. He can tell what’s around him, to a degree. Most people don’t have that.

He doesn’t use a cane or anything– partially because he doesn’t need it, and partially because there are always thieves that would attempt to prey on him if they saw the cane as a weakness. Grantaire has been the victim of an attempted mugging before. It’s just that his attacker came out of the exchange much worse than Grantaire did.

It still isn’t ideal for him to be out alone at night.

Paris doesn’t settle in darkness. If anything, the magical parts of the city come more alive. It’s title as the ‘City of Light’ means nothing to Grantaire, because he never saw the skyline lit up at night when he was a child. But he can hear raucous singing, and a siren wailing some streets away, and he can feel deep black magic seeping up from the catacombs and newer, sharper magic from the train lines. Something about them seems stronger and darker after the sun sets.

Someone calls his name. He stops walking and waits for whoever it is to reach him.

“Look at you, out and about all alone!” The voice cries. Grantaire grins as he recognizes the bright tone and warm magic of Bossuet coming at him from the left. He turns to face his friend and holds out a hand; Bossuet shakes it firmly.

“I needed to do some shopping,” Grantaire tells him. “But more importantly, I was out of food at my apartment.”

“And you couldn’t order take-out, of course,” Bossuet says with a laugh. He hooks his arm through Grantaire’s. “We’re both in luck then, I haven’t eaten either. We’ll get a meal together and then I’ll see you safely home.”

Grantaire doesn’t protest as Bossuet leads him cheerfully down the street. He knows his friends don’t like him going out alone, especially not at night. He can’t get frustrated at their concern. Besides, the walk goes much quicker with someone to talk to, and someone who can easily navigate.

Bossuet keeps up a stream of happy chatter as they go. Grantaire lets himself lean into his friend’s excitable magic.

*

When Enjolras pushes his way into Grantaire’s apartment the next day the witchboy is lying flat on his back in the middle of the floor, looking winded. Another man is curled up on his side near the window.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s words spill out of his mouth thickly. His chest is making odd heaving motions. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

The man by the window rolls onto his back with a groan. Enjolras shuts the door behind him but doesn’t move any farther into the apartment; the air smells oddly of iron today. “Are…are you okay?”

“Fucking amazing,” the stranger mutters. “It’s a success, R, we’re going to be rich.”

“I think I’m going to hold off on patenting it,” Grantaire pants. “I can’t feel my torso.”

“That’s so specific.”

“And yet.” Grantaire starts moving, feverishly tugging up the hem of his loose white shirt so that the smooth skin of his stomach is visible. Enjolras’s jaw drops; Grantaire’s skin, from at least the waistband of his black jeans up, is dyed bright yellow. “Enjolras, are my hipbones missing?”

“What did you do?”

The stranger hauls himself up into a sitting position and looks with interest over at Grantaire; both of them are still breathing heavily. “That’s fucking wicked, man,” he says. “You’re like a canary.”

“Am I really?” Grantaire runs one hand across the front of his stomach as though he’s trying to feel the difference, and then pulls his shirt off entirely. Enjolras takes a step back so that his shoulder blades rest against the door. “I don’t feel anything,” Grantaire mutters. He’s feeling his own chest with an expression of intense concentration and Enjolras’s face is burning.

“What did you do?” He asks again.

“Experimenting!” The stranger says cheerfully. “We can’t know the limits of magic until we push them, after all! Though, R, I must say that I wasn’t expecting you to turn yellow. That was unprecedented.”

Grantaire’s expression is amused and curious. “I would ask you to see how far down the yellow goes,” he says casually, “but I don’t think either of you actually want to see that.” His friend roars with laughter. Enjolras, when he catches the drift of Grantaire’s words, feels his face burn even hotter.

“What were you even trying to do?” He finally manages to say.

Thankfully, Grantaire pulls his shirt back on over his head after ascertaining that, apart from its buttery hue, his abdomen is the same as before. “Bossuet, what were we trying to do?”

“Well,” says the stranger Bossuet. “There’s a particular branch of color charms that Feuilly brought to my attention recently, that he uses for light painting. And I was wondering if there was a way to solidify light into paint, because I imagine that would greatly improve the lives of artists everywhere…”

“Bossuet is best when he sticks to technology,” Grantaire cuts in. “Something made a loud noise and then I was on the ground. And painted yellow.”

“Well I was trying to use sunlight.”

“Bossuet. There is literally so much power in sunlight–!”

“I figured it would help me!”

“You could have set this entire building on fire!”

“Oh come on, you have your protective charms.”

“They aren’t much use against the fucking sun!”

Enjolras covers his eyes with his hands. “Oh my god,” he says faintly. “Oh my god, how have the two of you never killed yourselves before now?”

“We have had many, many near misses,” Bossuet says casually. He sprawls back with a grin, resting his weight on his elbows. “But the benefits have always outweighed the dangers!” He has a wide, pleasant face, with dark skin like Combeferre and a closely shaved head. One of his ears is full of silver piercings. His dark skin is also covered in thin silver tattoos; it looks like he has metal imbedded into his skin, but Enjolras knows it must be magical ink.

“Enjolras, meet my oldest friend, Bossuet,” Grantaire says cordially from where he still sits on the floor. “Bossuet, this is the famous Enjolras.”

“A pleasure,” Bossuet says with a lazy wave of his hand. The tips of his fingers, from the last knuckle down to the edges of his nails, are silver. “I’ve been meaning to come see you at Courfeyrac’s, Grantaire says you’d like some spellwork done on your phone!”

“Oh– yes please.” Enjolras finally steps into the room and digs in his pockets for his phone. “What are you going to do to it?

“Don’t tell him!” Grantaire shoots a hand out as though he can still Bossuet’s words with his fingers from five feet away. “Once he’s done you’ll have to play with it, Enjolras, and figure out everything it can do. You need to experiment!”

Enjolras relinquishes his phone and sits on the floor next to Grantaire after a moment of hesitation. “Everything becomes a lesson around you,” he says ruefully.

Bossuet snorts as he pushes himself up off the floor and takes a seat at the table with Enjolras’s cell phone. “Funny of you to accuse Grantaire of that when you spend most of your time around Combeferre.”

The black cat comes to make a nest out of Grantaire’s lap and Enjolras smiles. “It’s different,” he says. “Combeferre doesn’t mind being pestered with questions. Grantaire here makes me stumble along until I find the answers myself.”

“It’s the only way to be taught,” Grantaire insists over Bossuet’s laughter. “Almost everything I know I figured out for myself!”

Enjolras crosses his arms. “I did plenty of experimenting with written magic, when I was learning it,” he reminds Grantaire. “You’re always very quick to dismiss that.”

“The thought of you working any magic without that golden voice of yours is heartbreaking enough,” Grantaire shoots back. “Besides. I have a particular bias against written magic.”

“It’s the one type he can’t master.” Bossuet sighs dramatically. “So sad. So tragic. He would have loved to be a threefold magician.”

Enjolras starts to laugh.

“It’s dangerous for Grantaire to be the only magical person you spend your time around,” Bossuet adds. “Written magic is very useful, even if the forms you know are a bit outdated. Why don’t you practice while I’m working on your phone?”

“There’s paper on the shelf by the window,” Grantaire says, bemused. He doesn’t stand up when Enjolras does; he still has the cat in his lap.

Enjolras sits at the table and accepts a few pens offered by Bossuet. “I really haven’t been writing very much since I got here.”

“What sort of things do they have you write, anyway?” Bossuet asks. He pulls a laptop out of a bag settled against his chair and plugs Enjolras’s phone into it. “What was your teaching like?”

“We did have forms we were supposed to stick to,” Enjolras replies. He makes a few lazy swirls on the paper. “No symbols or anything, only English. Words at the beginning…and the end… to signify the boundaries of the spell.” He takes a moment to mark them down. “It was like grammar and diagramming sentences. We had whole classes devoted to learning the different forms for different types of spells.”

Bossuet is raising his dark eyebrows at him. “That’s almost the opposite of what I was taught,” he says bluntly. “My teachers encouraged us to write in whatever language was easiest, and to use symbols and abbreviations. And we never specified the beginning and end of the spell.”

Enjolras looks uncomfortably at the words he had already written.

“You need to find what’s easiest for you,” Grantaire cuts in quietly. “It isn’t going to come as naturally, since your power lies more with words spoken out loud. Your forms are still powerful, but they’re unnecessary. It’s fine to use them until you learn more.”

Bossuet kicks his ankle under the table in a loose apology. “Write me one of your English spells?” He asks. “Turns the walls a different color or something.”

“Grantaire?”

The witchboy turns with an incredulous expression. “Enjolras. Darling. Do you think I give a single fuck what the walls of my apartment look like?” Bossuet starts laughing again. Enjolras throws one of the pens at Grantaire and bends carefully over the paper with another one.

After a moment he says, “Okay, watch.” Bossuet looks up from the computer screen and Enjolras makes the final stroke in the letters before lifting his head. He and Bossuet watch as the white walls darken evenly into a deep maroon, like red wine.

“Well done, you,” Bossuet says with a smile. Enjolras feels a spike of pride. Grantaire just yawns widely, putting on a mocking air of boredom before dropping his chin back down to his chest.

Enjolras bites his lip and lowers his eyes to the paper once more to write a single word: Grantaire. As soon as the pen finishes the curve of the last letter Grantaire’s head shoots up, startled. “Did you say my name?”

Enjolras smiles. “No,” he says smugly. “I didn’t.”

“Oh, you are good with the written stuff,” Bossuet says. “That’s useful. Lot’s of people don’t bother with learning a branch of magic that isn’t their specialty.”

Enjolras starts writing idly on his own wrist. “What’s your specialty?”

Bossuet snorts. “Written, technically, but I prefer to say typed. I work better with computers than with anything else.”

“Does typing out spells count as writing them?”

“Apparently.” Bossuet manages to keep the conversation flowing even when he turns back to his work. His silver-tipped fingers make are quick on the noisy keyboard of his laptop. “It’s unnecessary sometimes, since you can program a computer to do almost anything. But you can’t program it to make the screen resistant to shattering, or make it reappear in your pocket when you lose it. That’s the sort of work I do.”

“You’re ruining the surprise,” Grantaire mutters.

“Hush, you. Now take Grantaire here.” Grantaire flips them both off. “Kid’s an absolute fiend with object magic. It responds to him like none other– it’s his specialty. But he’s also pretty good at spoken stuff.”

“Really?” Enjolras looks over at his friend curiously. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him cast out loud.”

“It doesn’t come to me as easily,” Grantaire says shortly. He might look irritated, if he weren’t still tenderly petting the top of his black cat’s head.

Bossuet picks up Enjolras’s phone again and does something that makes it start buzzing incessantly. “Some people have even more specific knacks,” he says. “Like Bahorel. Necromancy technically falls under object magic, but he’s ridiculously talented with that one specific area. None of the food in his apartment ever goes rotten, it’s kind of incredible. I didn’t even know necromancy worked on food.”

Grantaire makes a low noise of dissent. “I would actually say that necromancy falls outside of the three types of magic,” he says thoughtfully. Enjolras recognizes his tone and stops drawing on his wrist so he can listen more closely. “Though even categorizing magic into the three types is inherently wrong. Spoke, written, object– it’s not three types of magic, it’s three ways to use the same magic. The magic that exists in everything. They’re all just ways of accessing it.”

Enjolras can’t move. Every miserable year of schooling he ever endured never allowed him to understand magic the way he does when Grantaire untangles it out loud.

“But there are certain powers that seem to exist outside of that. Love, trust, honor, hatred, belief. Death. What would you call those? Emotional magic? They can be binding. They can be tapped as sources of power.” He runs one hand down the cat’s spine. “Death is actually the easiest to work with, because of the intense study of necromancy that sprung up in Europe after the plague. Most of the others are still considered to be unclear and imprecise.” He clears his throat. “There are maybe three people in Europe who can manipulate any of them, and trust me when I say that they are far from experts.”

“Talk about time,” Bossuet says distractedly.

Grantaire smiles. “Most people think time is the only power that can’t be manipulated,” he continues in a low tone. “They’re wrong. But it’s difficult, and painful to get wrong. It has severe repercussions. Some people think reality is another force like time. Those two are, perhaps, the hardest to change. There was a very good research paper written about it some years back by a man in Japan that I can find for you, if you would like.”

Enjolras sets the pen down on the table and has to concentrate on finding his voice again. “I would like that, thank you,” he says quietly.

Grantaire’s answering smile is warm.

*

It takes a lot of concentration for Grantaire to get paper and ink speak to him, out loud, the way his phone and his books do. All of his novels have a simple symbol etched on the inside cover that will make them read aloud if he says the right words, but he can’t draw the symbol himself, so deciphering Montparnasse’s list takes the better part of two hours. He meant to have Enjolras do it. He forgot.

He lies on the floor with the letter on his bare chest and lets his mind drift loose into the magical veils that cover the physical world. His obsessive awareness of the passage of time dulls when he floats out of himself like this; he can’t feel anything but the soft beams of magic all around him.

His perception is very fine, to a level that even his closest friends can’t begin to comprehend. With enough concentration he can distinguish the ink from the paper on his chest. It takes a lot to hone his awareness down to that state. But when he has them separated, and can hold his awareness of the ink in his mind, it only takes a few murmured words for Montparnasse’s carefully scripted list to announce itself to him.

‘Words That Activate Babet’s Curse,’ it says in Montparnasse’s chilling tones. Since the list was created by his hand it wears his magic, which makes it easier for Grantaire to manipulate. ‘Arrest. Drug. Meeting. Midnight. Murder. Police. Red. Weapon.’ There’s a short pause. ‘Please advise. M.’

Grantaire starts to laugh. The paper floats up off his chest and over to the table, and he’s still laughing. He’s back in his own head but more in tune with his magic than usual, and that makes him ache and burn and grin all at once. He presses his palms flat to the floorboards and feels them erupt with leaves and flowers and vines that twine over his body and wrap around him lovingly. He tips his head back and lets the plants grow up over his narrow chin and the open curve of his laughing mouth.

When he sits up the vines release their hold on his shoulders and seem to melt back into the floorboards, though the gentle weight of several flowers stays in his hair. He leaves handprints of pure magic behind when he pushes himself to his feet. He’s full of power, drunken and lazy with it, and his perception of the room is spinning slightly. He can feel sparks in his teeth.

His lavender and basil plants are responding to him, as are the other greenery he keeps in glass globes near the window. He can feel them growing. Dust is being blown off the shelves to disappear into thin air. The fire in the hearth is roaring. Grantaire feels warm, and content, and safe, and absolutely dripping with magic. He could master death now, death and hatred and belief and honor and love…

He should probably try to do more work with Babet’s curse. Instead he staggers giddily across the room towards the door.

*

Enjolras freezes in the doorway to Courfeyrac’s kitchen.

His friend is standing by the counter with Combeferre. They’re very close together, with is odd, because Combeferre is usually so careful about his personal space, though he makes an effort to be tactile around Enjolras. But now he stands next to Courfeyrac so that their feet and elbows and shoulders brush as they clean up the dishes in the sink. While Enjolras watches, Combeferre dries his hands on a towel and uses his dark fingers to tip Courfeyrac’s jaw up and kiss him directly on the mouth.

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes. He can’t help it. Combeferre and Courfeyrac jerk apart. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to– I didn’t realize– sorry.” He starts to back out of the kitchen.

Within seconds Courfeyrac has moved over to him and stops him with his palms held out. Enjolras carefully takes his hands and lets his curly-haired friend neutralize some of the embarrassment that still feels warm on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Courfeyrac shakes his head.

“I can usually tell when you’re coming,” he says soothingly. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “I was a little preoccupied.”

Enjolras smiles back tentatively. Combeferre looks relieved.

“I wasn’t sure if you would be uncomfortable, if we told you,” Courfeyrac says quietly.

Enjolras grips his hands tighter. “I don’t know much about…any of that,” he says. His face is burning. “But it’s nice to see that it’s, ah, less of an issue here?” He tries not to think about Grantaire. He tries so hard to think about Grantaire.

Courfeyrac’s smile takes on a knowing edge, but he doesn’t say anything about it, for which Enjolras is grateful.

“I was going to go visit Grantaire,” Enjolras says after a few moments of silence. Damn. “I’m remembering that I didn’t get to help him with a curse he was working on, and I thought I’d go check on him.”

Combeferre pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I was just on my way out. Don’t feel like you have to leave.”

“I don’t, I promise.”

Courfeyrac hugs him briefly. Enjolras hugs him back, hard, and then flees.

Walking down the narrow streets to Grantaire’s apartment gives Enjolras the opportunity to catch his breath and calm the maelstrom of his thoughts. His hands are shaking. He knows what it means, he knows what his own reactions to Grantaire mean, but he had been laboring under the assumption that it was still something better left unspoken. He should have known better. Now that he does know better, he feels like he’s going to tremble into pieces.

The walk only takes him a few minutes. He spends most of it thinking deeply.

When Enjolras reaches the apartment the door is open but Grantaire isn’t inside, so he goes up the next flight of stairs.

Grantaire doesn’t notice when Enjolras pushes open the door to the rooftop garden. The witchboy is on his knees with his back to Enjolras and his arms spread out at his sides. He isn’t wearing a shirt; Enjolras can see dark tattoos on his shoulders, spine, and on the soles of his bare feet. A crown of light pink and white flowers rests upon his unruly hair. More startling than that are the deep red scars that spread across his hips and the backs of his arms. Enjolras has seen them before, he’s seen Grantaire without a shirt on before, but they seem darker now.

Enjolras hesitates by the door.

Something is different about Grantaire today. It reminds Enjolras of the charged atmosphere before a storm, or the reek of copper in a room where powerful spellwork has been wrought. Grantaire is almost humming with energy. The air around him looks discolored.

Enjolras narrows his eyes. His mouth drops open. There’s no denying it; Grantaire is glowing.

All of him seems to be bathed in amber light, like a sunset through a rainstorm. His hair is swirling around his head as though he’s underwater. Now that Enjolras is looking it appears that most of the plants on the rooftop garden are yearning towards Grantaire instead of the sun. In the center of it all Grantaire kneels, floating almost four inches off the ground, with his fingers outstretched to let power stream directly from him. The air around him vibrates.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes. The witchboy turns around and Enjolras stops breathing at all.

His eyes are glowing. Instead of their usual shade of pale blue they look like deep orange, flecked with impossible gold. They’re focused loosely over Enjolras’s left shoulder. His smile is wide and frightening. “Enjolras!” He says happily as he straightens up. The sound of his voice makes Enjolras’s ears ring. “I wasn’t expecting you!”

“Grantaire, are you okay?” Enjolras asks carefully. The magic around the witchboy is pulling him forward but he doesn’t take a step.

It doesn’t look like Grantaire’s feet touch the ground when he walks– dances– to Enjolras. The temperature rises as he draws closer. “I’m brilliant,” he says happily. “I’m absolutely wonderful, I’m magical.” He laughs and catches Enjolras’s wrists in his hands. His fingers are shockingly warm, as is his mouth when he presses a kiss to each wrist in turn. Enjolras’s breath catches in his throat.

“You’re acting strangely,” he manages. “Grantaire, what’s going on?”

Grantaire doesn’t let go of his wrists. His smile is still several shades too wicked; if his orange eyes weren’t sightless, Enjolras imagines that the other man’s gaze would be fixed on his mouth. The thought makes him pull one hand carefully out of Grantaire’s grip so that he can root around in his pocket. He doesn’t know what’s happened to his Grantaire but he knows that anything the witchboy does now isn’t true. His fingers close around a silver ring.

“You’re so gold,” Grantaire is murmuring. He leans his forehead against the line of Enjolras’s jaw. “Everything about you is burning gold.”

Enjolras breathes in sharply and slips the silver ring onto Grantaire’s finger. Grantaire collapses against him and throb of energy pulses through the air, like lightning. Enjolras staggers backwards with his arms full of his unconscious friend and swears. His skin feels tight and the air is too warm.

Grantaire is deadweight in his arms, and his eyes are shut. Enjolras decides it would be better to get the witchboy into bed. He doesn’t know if there is a better alternative, so he starts moving backwards with Grantaire in his arms.

Getting down to the apartment is the work of several minutes; by the time Enjolras manages it, his phone is buzzing with increasing urgency. Enjolras lays Grantaire on his small blue bed and answers it immediately.

“What did you just do?” Combeferre yells at him from across the line.

“I don’t know!” Enjolras cries back. “Something was wrong with Grantaire, he was filled with too much energy or something, and I had one of Courfeyrac’s rings on me…!”

Combeferre swears. “Enjolras, those rings are ciphered to tie them to Courfeyrac. You just transferred all of R’s energy to him.”

Enjolras pales. “Oh, fuck.”

“He’s hovering, Enjolras! Fix this!” Courfeyrac’s voice is loud and insistent in the background. Combeferre swears again and hangs up, leaving Enjolras to clutch desperately at his phone and stare at Grantaire’s limp form on the bed.

He had assumed that using one of Courfeyrac’s calming rings would just temper Grantaire’s odd energy, not siphon it all away. There’s no other solution he can think of, so he reaches for Grantaire’s dangling hand and pulls off the silver ring. It doesn’t go easily.

As soon as the silver leaves Grantaire’s skin the temperature in the room hikes up to an unbearable degree and Grantaire’s body takes on its golden glow again. Enjolras jumps back and throws the ring across the room before slamming his way out into Grantaire’s kitchen. The cat hisses at him in protest. “Pen, pens,” he mutters as he rifles feverishly through Grantaire’s cupboards. “R, you have to have some fucking pens.”

By the time he finds one and gets back to the bedroom, Grantaire is writhing and beginning to float over the bed, though his eyes are still closed. “Oh, no you don’t,” Enjolras mutters. He climbs right on top of Grantaire and tries to pin him down with one hand. It isn’t that Grantaire ties to fight him off; it’s just as soon as they make contact Grantaire tries to pull him in by the collar of his shirt. Enjolras has to untangle his warm hands from the fabric so he can write on the unmarked skin of Grantaire’s chest with the stolen pen.

His letters are sloppy, because Grantaire won’t stop moving, but he writes every spell he knows for calm, and for sleep, and for neutralizing Grantaire’s bizarre energy. He can feel some of it soaking into his own body instead, and he draws on it to make his written spells stronger. Grantaire slowly stops pulling at him. His body stills and his expression relaxes. Enjolras’s hands are going numb. He hasn’t attempted this much spellwork in years.

He doesn’t stop writing until he’s certain that Grantaire is asleep. Then he drops the pen on the floor and collapses next to him on the small blue bed, too worn out to do anything but succumb to the same exhaustion.

*

Grantaire has trained himself to react quickly to the sound of his apartment door flying open. Unfortunately, he reacts so promptly, even when half-asleep, that he falls completely out of his bed and almost drags Enjolras with him.

Which is odd. He doesn’t remember how Enjolras got in his bed again. But more pressing is the pain in his shin and elbows, and really in his entire body, what happened?

“Is this going to be a habit?” He groans.

He recognizes the agitated mess of Montparnasse’s magic appearing in the doorway just as Enjolras says primly, “At least it was you today. This has been your fault both times.”

“I hate to break up this charming tableau,” Montparnasse snaps. “Grantaire, I need you.”

Grantaire sits up more fully and tries to catch his breath. His body aches and his chest is humming, which is unprecedented. So is the pure panic that bleeds out of Montparnasse’s magic. “What happened?”

“Babet–”

“Not you.” Grantaire rubs his hands through his hair. “Enjolras, what happened to me?”

“I’m not really sure,” he says timidly, but Montparnasse cuts him off.

“I don’t care what went on between you and your boyfriend, Grantaire, I need your help!”

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend, Mont.” Grantaire drags himself to his feet and takes the opportunity to catalogue every aching strain of his body along the way. Mercy. “What’s wrong with Babet now?”

“Babet is missing,” Montparnasse snarls. He would sound incandescently angry to anyone but Grantaire, who can read fear in every word. “You need to find him for me.”

“Why me?”

“Why do you think, Grantaire, because you’re the only one powerful enough!”

Grantaire really would have loved to have time to wake up with Enjolras in his bed. He thinks the blond boy would have been sweet and sleepy and warm in his arms, and he’s missed having his constant company. He could have had such a nice morning. He scrubs a hand over his eyes.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, you bastard.”

Montparnasse all but snarls at him. “You owe me a favor, Grantaire. Help me.”

*

Enjolras only leaves when when Grantaire threatens to curse him if he doesn’t stop hovering. There’s weariness still in the lines of his face and the movements of his hands, but Enjolras bows to his wishes and leaves just as the sun is rising over Paris.

Grantaire promised not to do anything dangerous without help, but Enjolras knows that searching for Babet isn’t going to be a simple endeavor. He had wanted to stay and help. He wanted Grantaire to get some sleep. He wanted to ask about what on earth had happened to Grantaire the night before, but Grantaire had kicked both him and Montparnasse out.

Enjolras leaves with his hands in his pockets and a frown on his face. He can’t even enjoy the early sunlight in his short hair. He’s irritated at being woken up too early, and because he has too many questions without answers pushing at the edges of his mind.

He hasn’t gone far from Grantaire’s apartment when a cold, familiar voice stops him. “There’s something a little inhuman about him, isn’t there?”

Enjolras spins around to see Montparnasse leaning against the wall not far from him. The thief is stress-smoking something that makes him breathe out crimson.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Enjolras says slowly.

“Grantaire.” Montparnasse exhales more vibrant smoke and looks back over his shoulder. “You saw him. Sometimes it’s like he loses himself.”

The morning air is cold against Enjolras’s face. He doesn’t say anything.

“Did he ever tell you how he got his powers?” Montparnasse asks curiously. His eyes are narrow.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Is it your place to tell?”

“Maybe not.” Another plume of crimson smoke. The cigarette looks elegant, perched between his gloved fingers. “But it might be your place to know. He isn’t like anyone else.”

“I know that.”

“I doubt you do. Your magic has always been with you, hasn’t it? A power that you can remember having ever since you were a child?”

Slowly, Enjolras nods.

“Grantaire wasn’t like that. When he was a kid he was as magically devoid as your friend Combeferre.” Montparnasse looks ephemeral and threatening in his clouds of colored smoke but his posture is still loose. The fear that had gripped him earlier seems to have left him exhausted, but no less poised. “He didn’t even have any knacks.”

Enjolras’s hands are trembling.

“Then he ran afoul of…something. To be fair, no one really knows what.” Montparnasse stubs his cigarette against the wall in a small shower of violet sparks. “One moment you have a perfectly healthy, normal eight-year-old boy. Suddenly you have him completely blinded, trust issues, an anxiety problem, and so much magic it almost tears his body apart.”

The air in Enjolras’s lungs is freezing. He’s very aware of his own hands, his shoulders, his collarbones. He’s seen the void that Grantaire’s eyes can become. He’s seen the bright red lines on his skin– like scars, but so much darker. And he can’t forget what he saw earlier, Grantaire at the center of a self-made storm, glowing gold. There’s something a little inhuman about him, isn’t there?

“I don’t want you to tell me this,” he says numbly. “I shouldn’t be hearing this from you.”

“I just thought you ought to know,” Montparnasse murmurs. “You’re pretty, and you’re new to all of this. Having Grantaire introduce you to magic is forever going to change how you see it, what you know about it, and how you use it.” He smiles carefully. His teeth are too white. “Your position is very unique. I look forward to seeing what you can do while we look for Babet.”

He leaves Enjolras alone in the alley. His footsteps make no noise on the pavement, and he disappears long before he ever reaches a corner.