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The Americans are everywhere. Loud, boisterous, drunken, prone to inappropriate touching. These are Grantaire’s people. He’s never been so relieved. Last week it was Belgians, and they wouldn’t even share their alcohol. Never try and drink with Belgians.
The Americans are wonderful. Grantaire makes fast friends with one group and their cask of whiskey. They are soon the best of friends. The men are hard-bitten veterans of the front line and special operations. Their skills are deadly and their stories are worthy. They call themselves the Howling Commandos, which Grantaire finds charming.
He ends up calling for one of his own casks to share out, even though Enjolras gives him the evil eye and a speech about temperance in a glance.
Ignoring Enjolras grandly, Grantaire entertains with popular tales of the French Resistance. He never touches on actual Amis activity, but he gives them a twisty ride. Then he draws on vast reserves of bawdy gossip until his new compatriots are rolling in the aisles. It feels good to make these wild men laugh. After a while even Enjolras stops frowning at him from the corner.
One by one the men stagger off to a solid whiskey sleep, leaving Grantaire with their sergeant. They have eyed each other all evening with the understanding of intelligent men in the service of another.
The American’s captain has been talking with Enjolras for hours. Both are aware that the sergeant can’t move until the captain is secure. Grantaire gets it. He’s in the same position. So they keep drinking together, keeping company.
He’s a handsome young man, and would be quite to Grantaire’s taste, except Grantaire’s tastes begin and end with Enjolras. For once that’s a shame: the sergeant is well-built, with dark hair worn roguishly disheveled and enticing blue eyes. His lips are full and he smiles often. The American dress uniform does much for the male figure. In another life, six months ago, Grantaire would have already taken Sergeant Bucky Barnes upstairs, and uncinched the olive-colored belt around his trim waist.
Alas, his sacrifices for love and country.
“Your leader sure is, uh, talkative,” says Bucky, topping off their glasses to the brim. Grantaire adores Americans, particularly this one. He feels the stirrings of a unique kinship.
In the corner, Enjolras is gesturing as he speaks to the golden Adonis who heads the American contingent. In terms of golden Adonises, Grantaire is sorry to say that his love is finally outmatched. Enjolras is lovely as a flower, and fiery as a house on fire, but the Americans always build big and their effort is impressive. Steve Rogers is a stunning work of art. Grantaire would give a lot to draw him, and in another life--
Grantaire chuckles at Bucky's description. He is merry about his favorite subject. “Enjolras will speak unimpeded until morning, if permitted,” he warns. “It is in fact among his favorite activities.”
“Steve’ll let him,” Bucky groans, realizing they’re in for an long night. “He’s fascinated by other people’s strong convictions.”
“Then it is worse than I thought,” says Grantaire. He toasts Bucky and downs a measure of alcohol. After that he feels restored, and quite friendly. It isn’t often that he gets to meet someone in such a similar position. He risks a glance at Enjolras, and catches Enjolras staring back; there’s a small smile on his face. Grantaire returns it. Then he says to Bucky, “Do you fuck?”
Bucky splutters whiskey. “Excuse me?”
“Pardon my English, my friend,” says Grantaire, not sorry at all, “I am more poetic in Spanish, and more diplomatic in Italian. I ask because you seem to look at your captain like you want to fuck him, and I watch him look at you like you have not done so.”
Bucky is a fascinating shade of purple, relieved only when he drains the rest of the glass and sets it on the table with a thunk.
“I mean no offense,” says Grantaire, taking up the empty glass to refill it. “I was in the same position mere months ago. With the aid of my friends, I discovered that my affection was requited. Now I am the happiest man on Earth.” He spreads his hands. “I feel it my duty to help others achieve such a state, where I see it lacking. So, I repeat: do you--”
“Look, pal,” Bucky breaks in, hasty, then checks around for listeners. “I don’t know how this sorta thing flies in France, or with you Resistance sorts -- I don’t judge. But the stuff you’re talkin’ about could get me court-martialed.”
“You are far from home, Sergeant Barnes.” Grantaire stops smiling. This is serious. To see Bucky is a mirror of himself before he was certain of Enjolras. The desperation and the heartbreak and the unseen sacrifices. Grantaire recognizes the panic in Bucky Barnes’ eyes exactly. “Fine, then. We will use other words. You love him?”
“More than my own life.” It’s said on instinct, before Bucky can think twice. He presses his lips together.
Yes, Grantaire does understand. “You need to tell him.”
“Like hell I do,” says Bucky. Grantaire had shouted the same exact thing at Combeferre, only in French. He'll never live down the scene.
“We’re in a war,” says Grantaire, then drinks for comrades lost. It takes a moment to find his voice again. “Tomorrow might be your last day, or his. Tonight might be. You never know. So you must be selfish.”
Bucky aims a furtive glance over his shoulder. “You don’t get it. We’ve never been like that. Steve isn’t--”
“You are always together,” interrupts Grantaire, “are you not? You balance each other and share every hardship. When one thinks of you, they think instantly of the other. You are inseparable, bound. It seems you were born so that when one of you is in shadow, one is in the light. Tell me I am incorrect, Sergeant Barnes.”
Bucky closes his mouth.
“We are the same, you and I,” says Grantaire, lowering his voice to deliciously melodramatic. “We are their dark selves. They need us to burn as brightly. It is our fate, and we can but hope to die beside them.” He clears his throat and sips some more. Grins. “On the other hand, making love has never been so glorious, and I really must recommend it.”
Bucky is still wary, but he begins to unbend. “You -- and --?” Now he makes a great effort not to look at the corner. He doesn’t make any effort to try and pronounce Enjolras’ name.
Grantaire nods, proud and unashamed. To be loved by Enjolras is something he’d sing from rooftops if Enjolras would let him. Grantaire keeps the singing for personal concerts. “We were both afraid,” he tells Bucky. “But it was worse when we were fooling ourselves and no one else. United now, we’re stronger, and there’s less friction with our friends.”
Bucky flinches, and Grantaire thinks that the Howling Commandos could tell a tale or two about sexual tension.
“I’ll -- I’ll keep that in mind,” says Bucky. There’s an internal struggle that plays out on his face, in his eyes that don’t know where to settle. At last he raises them to meet Grantaire’s. “Merci, Grantaire.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Grantaire, delighted. “Really, don’t. Enjolras hates it when I meddle.”
“What do I hate?”
Enjolras appears at the periphery of Grantaire’s vision, such as the living sun emerges from behind a brazen cloud. Steve stands at his side, at attention.
“Raspberry jam.” Grantaire beams adoringly at Enjolras. “The statue breaks his repose! Apollo steps down from the battlements of Troy. I thought you had turned to stone. There are chairs, you know, for sitting.”
“It’s healthier for the body to stand.” Enjolras nods at Bucky, polite, then says, “Grantaire, are you quite finished here?”
“I believe I am,” says Grantaire, magnanimous. He winks at Bucky. Then he gets up to shake Steve Rogers’ hand, which is an experience. Steve has an iron grip and a dazzling smile, and the sort of blue, blue eyes that say trust me, I’m here to save your life.
It’s hard not to fall right into those fathomless depths. Grantaire feels great sympathy for Bucky Barnes. He only has to handle Enjolras and his gaze that reads trust me, I’m here to blow everything up.
Grantaire and Bucky share a goodbye shake. Then Steve and Bucky go back to their camp. Both are taking great care not to look each other in the eye.
Because Grantaire is very, very lucky, and must have earned this life through some karmic grand deed in another, Enjolras grasps his elbow and they go upstairs. They secure a small room of their own above the tavern rather than return to Les Amis’ base.
They exchange intelligence immediately. They share everything they’ve picked up throughout the day, and the evening with the Americans. Courfeyrac was right; it was the best approach to meet them in the tavern first, on friendly ground, instead of in the woods. Everyone got off on the right foot, and that bodes well for future joint operations.
Enjolras is pleased. He seems confident in the American captain, a rare accolade from him, and he listens attentively to Grantaire’s report. He listens while stripping them of clothing, which is Grantaire’s optimal mode of conversation.
“So I told Sergeant Barnes to say something to his friend,” Grantaire finishes. “It’s a shame about them, honestly.”
Enjolras nods, undoing the buttons on Grantaire’s shirt. “I am of the same opinion.” He looks at Grantaire, and there’s a mischievous smile tugging at his mouth. “I advised Captain Rogers to declare his feelings for the sergeant.”
Grantaire bursts out laughing. “Did you! A Cupid disguised as a rebel. No. Spartacus takes off his robes and is Eros underneath. And here I thought you only spoke in maps and supply lists and quotes from Moulin.” Shirtless now, he wraps his arms around Enjolras, who is as bare. Enjolras starts on their belts. Grantaire says, “The captain confessed?”
“He didn’t need to. His attention was distracted all evening, and he took to asking questions about you. He was obviously concerned for the sergeant’s virtue.”
“In another life--”
“Yes, yes.” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but his expression is impossibly fond. He threads out the tongue of Grantaire’s belt. “Once I assured him that you were no threat, he was more at ease, and seemed grateful to confide the affair. I do not think he had spoken of it before.”
“Americans,” muses Grantaire. “Such a young country. They value rough barbarism over the ancient and proven acts of love.”
“Well, we need their barbarians,” says Enjolras, pale brows drawing together, pinched, “as many as will help us, if we’re to have any chance of liberating--”
“Hush,” says Grantaire, taking Enjolras’ hands between his own. The strain is showing through, and this is where Grantaire is most required. He leads Enjolras over to the bed and has him sit down. Enjolras has been standing for many hours, likely since daybreak.
Grantaire assumes the task of freeing them from garments. He kneels at Enjolras’ feet to work on the knots of his black boots. He shifts the conversation away from Enjolras’ responsibilities. He looks up, persuasive, knowing Enjolras can never resist him on his knees. “Do you think the captain will take your advice?”
Enjolras is glad enough not to speak of Resistance strategy for a stretch. It isn’t often that they get to contemplate another pair’s antics from the lofty perch of wisdom and hindsight.
Enjolras closes his eyes when Grantaire gets a boot off and insists on rubbing the revealed foot. “He seemed eager, if apprehensive. They’ve known each other for some time, and he isn’t sure how he’ll be received. You’re right about American repression. Ah, Grantaire, your fingers are clever.” Enjolras opens his eyes, collects himself to confront injustice. “Yes, American repression. The poor man could hardly speak of taking someone to bed.”
Grantaire shifts his attention to the other boot, the other foot. “I can recall another sort of captain who struggled with such matters,” he says mildly. With boots off and toes plied, only Enjolras’ pants remain. Enjolras puts up his hips and Grantaire tugs them off, then shucks his own. He climbs onto the bed and resumes the massage at Enjolras’ neck.
Enjolras moans for him, and lets his head fall forward. His long blond hair is a pennant, a flag that men and women swear fealty to. His broad naked back, skin turned to bronze by long days in the sun, his slim form made muscular by marches and crawling through bombed-out vineyards on his elbows. His red lips, ripe for kissing, redder than the jacket he wears in defiance of snipers.
He never ceases to feel like a holy object to Grantaire, and Grantaire touches him with due reverence. It is Grantaire's opinionated speech that teases him and keeps Enjolras grounded.
Enjolras gives a self-deprecating laugh, which he is wonderfully capable of these days. “I felt qualified to contribute, it’s true,” he says. “I told Captain Rogers my own story, or perhaps it is ours. How at first we were at odds. How I kept you at a distance, and ill-used you, and blamed you for acting ill-used. How I did everything to make it seem as though I did not care about you, while singling you out for my attention. How I realized, through the intervention of our friends, that I was in love with you, and I was trying to make you leave.”
“You gave it a spirited go,” says Grantaire, patting Enjolras’ shoulderblade. He's not exactly keen to revisit the worst time of his life, which preceded the best.
Enjolras snorts, a delicate sound. He isn’t finished. Now he sounds quite serious. “And I told the captain what I discovered. That I love you, and in this war, it’s the only thing that’s kept me human. Men don’t want to follow a myth. Without you, I would’ve made decisions that risked Les Amis, operations for the sake of history instead of strategy. You remind me why I want to live, Grantaire, and it becomes a different kind of fight.”
This is the most emotive Enjolras has been on the subject, and Grantaire is careful not to let his soothing massage falter. Even marble wears down and demands a shine. He presses a kiss to the crown of Enjolras’ head. He says nothing else, wouldn’t break this stream of words for the world.
“The captain described a fierce attachment to his sergeant. He risked his life and career to rescue him on an unauthorized mission. I pointed out that he had already chanced so much. This last part is a small challenge compared to the rewards.” Enjolras pushes back his hair so that he can eye Grantaire properly. He looks impatient, unused to Grantaire’s silence. “Well, what do you think?”
“I've never been so proud,” declares Grantaire, caressing the muscles of Enjolras’ back. “Nor loved you half so much.”
The twitch of a smile is immediate. “Half? I gained by half?”
“You should matchmake more often. It's entirely attractive on you.” Grantaire bends, unable to resist kissing Enjolras’ bronze shoulders. He digs his fingers into the tension there. “We did well. If the sergeant follows my instructions, and the captain yours, they must meet in the middle.”
“I envy them their first night.”
“What, have you forgotten our own so quickly? Callous memory! You swore you never would.”
“It’s gone, I’m afraid.” Enjolras shakes his head, all mournful taunting. He turns to lie on the bed, and in a decisive movement pulls Grantaire on top of him. “You’ll need to remind me how it went.”
“Terrible creature,” says Grantaire between hungry kisses. “Cruel tormentor. That night should be recorded for posterity. I intend to commission a tapestry.”
“Did you give up on the painting of it already?”
With feigned indignation, Grantaire does not speak again until he has prepared Enjolras and is sheathed inside him. Then he rolls his hips smartly and says, “Are you reminded?”
Enjolras clings to him, an arm around his neck, Grantaire’s body held in the crook of his knee. He arches up to take him deeper. His lips graze Grantaire’s ear. “Some memory returns.” Enjolras kisses him, his hands tangling in Grantaire’s hair, and the motion of their bodies overtakes all else. There is a war outside the window, but it seems far from here.
Grantaire’s thrusts are fast and hard, to start -- it has been many days since they had a real bed. Then he slows to a steady, decisive drive, the aching build that Enjolras likes best. He gets his hand around Enjolras’ exquisite cock and gets Enjolras’ eyes to look almost as big as they did the first time.
“Yes,” Enjolras pants, “Yes, I seem to recall--”
They gasp as they come together, spilling out their love, speaking of it with kiss-stung lips. Grantaire watches the most beautiful and righteous man he’s known unravel underneath him. He watches Enjolras give over to pleasure, a needful surrender for one who otherwise never lets down his guard. He watches Enjolras be only a man, without the weight of nations on his shoulders, for a moment.
Grantaire kisses Enjolras’ perfect nose. He’ll never know what he did in another life to deserve this. He must’ve saved a burning orphanage of children, or been a lion who led a popular conversion to vegetarianism.
They sprawl in bed turned face to face. Enjolras runs his thumb across Grantaire’s cheek. “How do you think our American friends are doing?”
“I would bet a lot of money they are passing a similar evening, only with considerably less finesse.”
Enjolras allows a smile, though his eyebrow goes up. “I’ve learned never to wager against you. If you want me to flatter you, Grantaire--”
“Flattery nothing. I’m bragging. And truth-telling.”
“You’re insufferable--”
“You live for it,” trills Grantaire, realizing the priceless ammunition he’s gained. “You told Captain America you live for me--”
“I take it all back--”
The window to the little attic room is open, and the sound of their laughter travels down the hill and through the trees to the bivouacked Americans. In the same army tent they’ve occupied for a year, Steve and Bucky are having a new kind of conversation.
Bucky takes Grantaire’s advice to heart, and he starts a speech declaring the fullness of his intentions, and his long-tormented thoughts, and the agony of his emotions.
Steve follows Enjolras’ strategy, and he kisses Bucky on the mouth mid-speech so that there’s no mistake about it.
When the sun is up, Grantaire watches Enjolras sleep, not willing to wake him yet. Soon enough they will return to the fight.
Across the field, Bucky smooths his hand through Steve’s hair, and gives him five more minutes' rest.
Everyone is late to the meeting in the morning. Even war must yield to love, since it has no defense against it.